


Dubsquared The (X-mas) Musical

by JoyHeart



Category: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)
Genre: Crack, Fetish, General horny vibes, Generally made in poor taste, Homophobia, M/M, Masochism, Musical, Sadism, Songfic, Tongue-in-cheek, Violence, Violence against Children, but im trying, i dont know why, masturbation mention, pre-canon AU, this is meant mostly as a joke, tony the tiger - freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28143135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoyHeart/pseuds/JoyHeart
Summary: Bill Close is a down on his luck musician and part-time crackwhore who is looking for a new money making scheme and also for someone to break his fingers for sex reasons.Willy Stampler is a man eager to find a new way to pay less taxes to help ensure he does the least amount possible to help other people while continuing his quest to be the worst father that has ever lived.Put them together and add some Xmas magic, and dreams really do come true.
Relationships: Bill Close/Willy Stampler
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Good Morning Bill, You Whore

**Author's Note:**

> So.
> 
> This started as a half joke in the discord but now... it exists. And will keep existing. 
> 
> I'm not sorry.
> 
> This chapter's song is a parody of 'Good Morning Baltimore' from Hairspray! If you're unfamiliar with it, go give it a listen before reading this chapter because otherwise you might be a bit... confused.
> 
> THIS FIC NOW HAS A PLAYLIST TO FOLLOW ALONG, MORE SONGS TO BE ADDED! Big thanks to redrichards on ao3 for making it for me, I know nothing of spotify!
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0mOnq8KOuMiu2Hz2kFkySA?si=dWSmbE8PSTi1FFrq59SDKA

**Dubsquared the _X_ -mas Musical **

** Part 1 – Good Morning Bill, You Whore **

****

**Some whores have a heart of gold.**

**Bill was not one of them.**

*

Bill Close woke up lying on the floor next to the kitchenette in his bachelor pad. He was wearing the same clothes as he had been the night before, that being a Queen t-shirt and ass-less chaps with the words ‘LEATHER SLUT’ bedazzled up each leg. Except that ‘leather’ was misspelled as ‘lether’, but in his defense, he made it a point never to listen when his ex-wife told him he was wrong about anything.

Bill’s ex-wife Christine was a real bitch. She had been all up in his face for YEARS about ‘getting a job’ and ‘not spending all her money on drugs and fetish gear’ and ‘spending some time with his ten-year-old son for once’. So lame. So he’d left for a while, but only like about four or five months, and when he came back she’d thrown all his stuff out! Such a bummer. Christine never understood Bill’s vision no matter how many times he pointed at his vision board. Not to mention she kept saying everything Bill wanted to do in the bedroom was ‘weird’ and ‘dangerous’ and ‘would probably kill him if they tried it’. She was SUCH a bitch.

But seriously, getting kicked- ahem- CHOOSING TO WALK OUT was the best CHOICE that Bill could have made. Sure, the apartment he was in now was a lot smaller, and dirtier, and more rat-infested than the one he’d shared with his wife and kid, but that didn’t matter when you were only there to crash. That’s why he dubbed it, get this, _the crash-pad_. Totally genius.

And who didn’t want their bedroom, kitchen and living room to be in the same place? That’s just efficiency.

As Bill pushed himself off the floor he stumbled against the counter and puked in the sink, head pounding. The microwave clock (the only one in the apartment) blinked a friendly 4:46. The sun trickling in behind the towel stapled across the window told him it was daytime. Though, given Christmas in San Dimas was just around the corner, it wouldn’t be day for much longer. Perfect, the night was where all the magic happened. He staggered to the freezer to grab a pizza pocket for fuel and threw it in the microwave.

The hum of the microwave felt soothing, like a bassline. Nice. The neighbours upstairs were stomping around as usual, occasionally shaking dust and plaster from the ceiling onto Bill’s head. A drum beat, killer. The cars honking in the street could’ve been in the room, the walls were so paper-thin. Damn, horns, this band was _classy_. And when his neighbours started screaming and throwing things at each other, threatening to kill each other… dang, that made him feel things.

Bill’s toes started tapping as he watched his hot pocket dance and spin inside the warm glow of the microwave, and a grin spread its way over his face as he began to sing.

“ _Oh oh oh, woke up today, feeling the way I always do!”_ Bill scratched his balls and started peeling his chaps off. _“Oh oh oh, hungry for something that I can’t eat. A new kind of meat!”_

He pulled on a fresh pair of booty-shorts and sniffed his t-shirt. Still good. He crossed the room and pulled up the towel over the window to squint past the setting sun and down at the weirdos and partiers already flooding the street below. Bill grinned wider. _“The red lights of town are hailing me down. It’s like a message from high above!_ ” The microwave beeped.

“Nice!” Bill cheered, yanking open the microwave door too hard so the hinges snapped. He looked at the door in his hand with wide eyes, and then slowly lowered it onto the counter top. He pulled out the hot pocket, gasping and juggling it from hand to hand as his fingers burned, and then took a huge bite.

It was cold in the middle, so he opened his window with the broken screen and threw it at a pigeon.

Then the rats in the hall were treated to a vision of Bill bursting out the door of his apartment into the filthy hallway and striking a rock star pose, throwing double horns and sticking out his tongue. _“OH OH OH PULLING ME OUT TO THE SADISTS AND CHEATERS I LOVE!”_

“Oh, shit!” Bill gasped as his landlord appeared out of stage left like a spectre of death in a blue polo shirt. The narciest narc to ever narc.

His landlord smiled a most nasty smile as he held out an open hand under Bill’s greasy nose. _“Good Evening Bill, you whore! Every day I have come to your door! Your rock dreams are a fantasy. Now where’s that rent money you owe me?”_

Bill pushed the hand away from him and flipped his landlord the bird. _“Good morning Fred, you bore! Watch one day when I take to the floor, the world’s gonna wake up and see! This tight ass, and me.”_

With that sung, Bill turned tail, shook his butt for emphasis, and then ran down the hall with his landlord swearing behind him. He kept running as he reached the stairs and flew down them (no elevators in this building, it was very un-cash money but sometimes you just had to deal). As he ran, his beloved lil rattail bounced behind him in the wind.

_“Oh oh oh, look at my hair! What rattail can compare, with mine today? Oh oh oh, I’ve got my knife and my bag of blow, I’m ready to hoe!”_

Bill left via the side door into the alley behind the Chinese Food restaurant and danced around the vermin that were swarming the dumpsters. “ _The rats on the street, all dance ‘round my feet. They seem to say, ‘Billy, it’s up to you!’ So oh oh, don’t hold me back cause one day all my dreams will come true!”_

Stepping out onto the street proper to join the throng of folks out to work the night shift, out to party or, like Bill, a bit of both, he took a moment to enjoy the dimming light reflecting off the cheap blue snowflakes the city had taped to the streetlamps and the dollar-store Christmas lights the smoke shop had stapled to their sign. Tis the season.

Taking four steps down the road, Bill was immediately faced with a man in a trench coat who jumped out from behind the mailbox he had been pissing on and opened his arms to give Bill a good eyeful of what he had underneath.

_“Good morning Bill, you whore!”_ sang the flasher.

Bill laughed and gave the man a high five. _“That’s my flasher who lives next door!”_ He blew a kiss to a hairy man sitting on a nearby stoop. _“And there’s that bum from the bar room stools. I fuck them both while my son’s at school.”_

And made good money doing it. His band gigs weren’t gonna pay for rent AND food for him and the kid, AND blow after all. Bill vogued down the sidewalk toward the run-down bar his band played at on Tuesdays over dinner rush. _“I may be Bill, that whore. But some day when I take to the floor, the world’s gonna wake up and see! My sick abs, and me.”_

Pushing open the door to the bar, Bill side stepped the Happy Hour drunkards and waved at his two bandmates, Pelvis and Stinky (not stage names, just unfortunate), who were setting up their instruments on the tiny metal stage. Bill only knew two and a half chords, but it didn’t matter. He was the front man! He just had to look good and sing. And he knew he had the voice of an angel and a booty to match.

His bandmates looked kind of mad. Was he late? Urgh, he didn’t want to be sober if he was gonna get chewed out. He swung around toward the bar for his first complimentary drink of the night instead, his song slowing a little in tempo. “ _I run every scam, I sing the right songs. I know there’s a place where I belong. I’ve seen all those party lights shining ahead! So someone invite me before I drop dead!”_

_“Before he drops dead!”_ sang the Happy Hour drunkards. Bill slammed back three shots of tequila, giggled, and jumped on the bar stool over the jazz hands and jumped into a stage dive, riding the hands of the intoxicated bar patrons toward the stage where his bandmates were tapping their feet. But like. In an angry way.

_“So oh oh, give me a chance! Maybe if I learned to dance, I’d be a movie star! Or or or, just hand me some cash and a beating for free, fame ain’t necessary!”_

When his adoring public pushed him onto the stage, Bill held up a silencing finger to Pelvis as he opened his mouth, instead grabbing the microphone and ignoring the feedback as he rubbed his lips all over the head and sang to the crowd. _“My ex-wife told me no, so my feet told me GO! No-thing’s more rock and roll than a bro-ken heAaAaArt...”_

“Bill, listen-” Pelvis tried to take the microphone but Bill kicked him in the nuts and pushed him back into his drum set before grinning back at his fans, using tongue on the mic now, rattail taking on a life of its own to whip around in a circle behind him. Dazzling lights and fireworks were blasting around him, it was trippy as fuuuuuck.

“ _So oh oh, my son can cry, but I won’t wait there for my life to start!”_

The crowd, hyped to the max, sang in sonorous unison. _“GOOD MORNING! GOOD MORNING! HE WON’T WAIT FOR HIS LIFE TO START!”_

Bill practically shoved the mic down his throat as he belted, all the eyes on him were doing things to him, man. His grabbed his crotch on the high notes. “ _I’m more than Bill, the whore! Though every day I’ve got open drawers! And every night I’m your fantasy… I know the world all revolves ‘round me…”_ He pointed dramatically over the crowd. “ _And I promise all you whores! That someday when I take to the floor, the world’s gonna wake up and see!”_

 _“GONNA WAKE UP AND SEE!”_ screamed the crowd.

_“This tight ass, and me!”_ Bill turned and flexed his buttocks. _“These sick abs, and me!”_ Bill took off his shirt and flung it into the crowd where three men ripped it in their quest to smell it first.

Bill spread his arms wide, ignoring that the mic was now too far from his mouth as he bellowed with his eyes shut. “ _THIS HOT MESS, CALLED, MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!”_

“Bill, you’re fired.” Suddenly all the music and cheering cut off as if it had never existed all. It was jarring to say the least.

Bill turned to look at Stinky, his face weirdly clear amid the hazy backdrop of the stage. Pelvis was still trying to pull himself out of his burst bass drum and failing miserably.

“What do you mean I’m fired? You can’t fire me in front of all my fans!”

“Bill, there’s like three people in here and none of them are even looking at us. How high _are_ you right now?”

Bill thought about it for a long, long, long time. Maybe a thousand years. Maybe three seconds. Who knew, really? “Pretty fucking high.”

“Bill, go home, don’t come back. We replaced you.”

“With who?”

“Randy.”

Bill narrowed his eyes. “He drives that blue chevy, right?”

“Bill, if you slash Randy’s tires, I’m gonna slash your fucking face off.”

A bright, excited smile flashed over Bill’s face as he batted his eyelashes. “Ooh, promise?”

Stinky rubbed his eyes and waved over the bouncer. “This is for your own good, Bill. Clean up, get a real job for once.”

Bill, in a moment of unexpected, sobering clarity, realized that Stinky was serious. “Stinky, please! Give me another chance! You know I can’t work for shit, I’d just steal the boss’s money and get charged for sexual harassment!”

“Then whore yourself out more, man, I don’t know! I can’t keep replacing all the instruments you break when you’re fucked up!”

“I can’t whore myself out more, I’m on a tight enough schedule as is, and most of the geezers on this street can’t even beat me into an erection, let alone an orgasm!”

“Then find a boyfriend to take care of you, you stupid fuck!” Stinky snapped as the bouncer picked Bill up, tucked him under his arm, and started carrying him to the exit.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Bill snorted, rattail dragging on the ground. “Easier said than done. And where will I ever be able to find a guy with money AND the desire to beat the shit out of me AND rampant homophobia? The perfect man just doesn’t exist.”

In that moment, in a house not so far from that very street, a broad-shouldered man with biceps like boulders and a face that looked like it ran into one too many boulders over the course of his life, loosed a mighty sneeze.


	2. Santa Buddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill comes home drunk and finds someone in his house, then he gets horny and sings about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song here is a parody of Santa Buddy by Michael Bublé. Please listen specifically to that version of this song before you read this, it's some wild homophobic shit.

**Chapter 2: Santa Buddy**

Bill Close wandered back into the crash-pad at 4am after getting kicked out of the Denny’s for letting the end of his rattail lay free over the back of his diner bench where it had tried to strangle a five-year-old child to death.

Bill’s argument that a five year old shouldn’t be out in a Denny’s at 4am was unjustly dismissed, and so Bill had left in a sulk while the staff threatened to call the cops. He would’ve stayed longer to see if he could seduce an officer into hitting him with his night stick while he handcuffed him, but since he was carrying about 10lbs of crack on his person, he didn’t want to risk having it taken away by some asshole crackhead cop.

And so Bill opened the door to his apartment, and the first thing he clocked was that the lights were on and it sounded like someone was moving near his kitchenette. Moving slowly, Bill saw that his fridge door was open, shielding whoever had broken into his place from view.

Wait, _was_ this his place? He did a double take of the room. Towels on the windows, broken microwave door, bare mattress on the floor with a pile of dirty sheets balled up on it, pile of loose records in the corner… nope, this was the right place. Wait, what was that in the other corner? Was that… a Christmas tree? It looked like a bunch of different coloured tinsel stapled to a vaguely-triangular amalgamation of sticks, but… yeah, kinda. That wasn’t there before. Maybe this _wasn’t_ his place?

Well, either it was his place and he had an intruder, or it wasn’t his place but this guy was his interior decorating soulmate. Either way, he had to make a good first impression.

He looked back at the fridge and started to quietly tip toe up behind the short, skinny figure shifting around the myriad of half-full pickle jars inside.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE?!” Bill screamed, immediately grabbing the possible(?) intruder’s hips and pushing him forward into fridge where he immediately broke three pickle jars with his forehead and started screaming and getting blood everywhere.

He scrambled out of the fridge and stumbled to the kitchen sink to start cleaning out the glass shards from his forehead. Luckily, bloody head wounds were rarely as bad as they looked. Bill idly shut the fridge and swept the glass shards on the floor underneath the fridge with his foot while waiting for the short guy to grab a paper towel and hold it against his face before turning to Bill with a scowl. “What. The. FUCK. Dad?!”

Bill blinked blearily at the short guy for a minute. “Oh, hey Glem. What’re you doing here?”

“What the fuck do you mean what am I doing here? I’ve been living here for the last five days while mom went back to Korea to take care of grandma for three months.” The wound was already drying up as Glenn marched his ten year old body over to what Bill had thought was just a pile of trash bags that held all of Bill’s clothes and shit, but shoved aside revealed the bare, single mattress he had for guests which had two little suitcases with Goofy and Donald Duck on them.

“Oh… oh yeah, sorry dude, I forgot. Wait, you’ve been here five days? I swear I only saw you when you got here, I thought maybe you ditched to couch surf instead?”

Glenn rolled his eyes as he sat on his mattress, leaning against one of the trash bags. “I’ve been here. It’s just I’m sleeping behind your clothes bags when you get home in the morning, you pass out while I get ready for school, and I stay out late after school smoking with the guys, by the time I get back you’re out for the night.”

“Oh, killer, glad that’s working out,” Bill shrugged. Then he paused. “Wait, why are you awake now?”

“Been smoking weed, man. Got the munchies.”

“Oh yeah, heh, nice. Maybe I’ll grab a toke, too.” He stumbled toward his Marvin the Martian cookie jar stash, but stopped when Glenn laughed.

“Nah man, that cookie jar is empty, I got the last of it.”

Bill gasped, his rattail vibrating in rage. “WHAT?! That was the good stuff! Why the fuck would my own son steal my weed? Where’s the weed I bought you? You were supposed to smoke THAT!”

“Dude, the weed you bought me was gross af. I’m not smoking that shit.”

“I oughtta beat the shit out of you, kid!”

Glenn immediately pulled two knives out of his pockets and leapt into a crouching battle stance. “Fucking try it, old man! I’m crazy! I’ll cut your Achilles tendon in a second!”

Bill narrowed his eyes, but decided he was pretty effing tired and he was shaky on what he was mad about anyway, so he let it go. “It’s whatever, chill out, dude.” He glanced back at the tree in the corner. “Where’d that garbage come from?”

“Oh, uh, that old lady down the hall gave it to me. Said a kid should have a Christmas tree. It was a fucking weird, but, you know, free stuff.”

Bill hummed, “And did you check the registry?” 

Glenn rolled his eyes. “She’s not a sex offender.”

“Just checking. Though you know, they don’t catch all of them. I’m proof of that.”

“Whatever, dad.” 

Bill groaned and fell back on his mattress, moaning loudly as his head started to prickle with a hangover he would need to sleep off. “Euuurgh I need to get fucked.”

“And that’s my cue to leave. Bye dad. I’ll just sleep on a bench before school starts or something.”

“Ok, bye,” Bill moaned, throwing an arm over his eyes as Glenn slammed that front door and ran full speed down the hall.

“I can’t believe they fired me from the band,” Bill muttered to the ceiling. “Everyone wants to fuck a rock star. The dungeon isn’t going to give me a discount now. This sucks so bad. Picking up randos at a bar never ends as violent as you want it to. Is it so much to ask to attract the attention of a _real_ psychopath for once?”

Bill grumbled, crawling back to his feet to grab a beer from the fridge. Just to keep his buzz going till he could fall asleep. On his way back from the fridge he stopped to stare at the tinsel-tree for a bit, feeling sad and horny.

With a deep, longing sigh, Bill began to sing. _“Santa buddy, slip a sadist under the tree, for me. I’ve been an awful bad boy. Santa buddy, so hurry down my chimney tonight.”_

Draining his beer in one glorious chug, Bill crushed the can on his head and burped loudly before tucking the empty can in amongst the tinsel. Perfect. With a pleased hum, he began running his hands up his body to encircle his neck. “ _Santa buddy, I want some hands to choke to goo. ‘Til I’m blue. Break my fingers quick, too. Santa buddy, so hurry down my chimney tonight.”_

Squeezing his neck hard enough to bruise it a little (he didn’t want to look single after all) and pushing his fingers back just hard enough to hurt too much, Bill skipped across the room, pulling his too-tight clothes off as he went. _“Think of all the work I’ve missed! Think of all the dungeon doms I’ve yet to kiss. Next year I could be full of bliss, if I embrace my inner masochist.”_

Bill sighed again, more dramatically as he pulled aside the towel at his window and pressed his bare ass to it, hissing at the cold and wiggling it as he got into the swing of the song. “ _Santa Daddy, I want a bloke who’s willing to make me choke… make me sub-mit in fear. Santa buddy, so hurry down my chimney tonight.”_

When mooning the public became boring, Bill took his drunk ass back to his Marvin the Martian cookie jar, only to open it and remember Glenn smoked the last of his weed. What a little bitch. This was tragic. _“Santa buddy, one thing I really do need, more weed.”_ Groaning dramatically Bill fell on his bed and growled. “ _And to get FUCKED WITH A WRENCH! Santa buddy, so hurry down my chimney tonight.”_

Closing his eyes and starting to do what hot, single men do while thinking about getting beaten bloody with a cat o’nine-tails by a beef cake twice their size. “ _Ooh, Santa Daddy, fill my stocking with some barbed whips, for kicks… and an electrified sound. Santa buddy, please hurry down my chimney tonight.”_

As he felt his cheeks heating up into a flush, Bill raised his feet into the air, swinging them back and forth to the beat. “ _Come and trim my Christmas tree! That’s a euphemism, come and beat me, please.”_ Suddenly a vision of a mall Santa flooded Bill’s mind and he grimaced. _“Or maybe not, you’re not really my type. Beards aren’t my thing, but man, I dig that you’re white.”_

Letting his feet fall back on the mattress as he tried to get back in the mood, Bill frowned at the cracks in the ceiling and remembered once again that he was down to one, unsteady source of income. _“Santa buddy, forgot to mention one little thing, cha-ching! If he’s poor, there’s the door. Santa buddy, so hurry down my chimney tonight. Nrgh, hurry down my chimney tonight! Oh fuck, oh god, h-hurry down my chimneeeeeey…. AAAH! Tonight.”_

Panting in the aftermath, Bill felt an onset of Extreme Dread. His rent may be cheap, and sure, he could try turning a few more tricks to meet it. But drugs were a lot more expensive, and he was too rock and roll to go clean. He’d be homeless soon if he didn’t have a brilliant idea for a get rich quick scheme.

Well, it _was_ Christmas time. If he dressed Glenn up as an elf and grabbed a bucket, he could probably pretend to work for the Salvation Army and get some quick coin that way, but that was pretty temporary.

Maybe he could bum a loan out of a friend and never pay it back? But most of his friends and family these days had cut him off and out of their lives after he used them in some scheme gone awry. Bill pulled his immaculate, white, brand new iphone with no case to spoil the effect from where it was plugged into the wall and started scrolling through his contacts. He never deleted anyone, just in case some rando he met in college ever got famous and he could sell their number to a fetish website for the big bucks.

He scrolled far down the phone before spotting the number of one Willy Stampler. Oh yeah, his old college roommate from that crazy six months he went to college. The number was for a house phone so it probably didn’t work anymore, but he could detective that shit. Willy’s family were business types, right? Gotta be some money there he could get him to ‘invest’ in something, heh. Course, wasn’t Willy the guy who got caught drowning a cat in the communal shower?

…

Nah, it’s probably fine. And Bill didn’t like cats either, anyway. Also, if Bill remembered right, Willy was homophobic as shit, so maybe there was some hope to be had in that department too.

‘It’s all coming together,’ Bill thought as he passed out, his phone falling from his hands to the cement floor where the screen immediately shattered.


	3. You're A Mean One Mr. Stampler (Feat. Silent Night Daddy's Home Remix)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But while Bill Close mulled over his problems in his shitty apartment, so too did Willy Stampler fight the perils of being rich in a country full of bleeding heart Liberals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs in this chapter are parodies of the traditional Christmas carol Silent Night, and Boris Karloff's You're a Mean One Mr. Grinch
> 
> Lots of violence against... everyone in this chapter. Willy is not a nice man. Not even Tony the Tiger is safe.

**Chapter 3: You’re A Mean one Mr. Stampler (Feat. Silent Night, Daddy’s Home Remix)**

In a very large grey brick McMansion, on a grey paved street full of identical McMansions, out in the upper-middle-income section of the San Dimas suburbs, eleven year old Ron Stampler was sitting tensely on the rug in the living room reading a bright red and rather battered book of Christmas guitar tunes by the fading grey light from the window.

He was wearing a literal towel tied around himself like a toga because his father, Willy Stampler, said it was too expensive to keep buying him clothes while he was still growing and so instead Ron had a collection of towels, sheets, and blankets he would wrap around himself. Whenever Willy would see him wearing these, he would laugh at him and tell him he was a worthless degenerate that couldn’t even afford clothes and he should get a job. He dreamed of the day when he could wear pants. Truly on the day pants adorned his rear, he would be a man.

At six years old, Ron did once try selling lemonade on the street in hopes to make enough money to buy a pair of children’s pants at k-mart, but after a police officer fined him for soliciting and his father took his cut for ‘rent money’, he was left with negative fifty-six dollars and sixty cents. After that, Ron decided he should at least wait until his legs were long enough to run from the cops before he tried his hand at business again.

Of course, Willy’s fierce debasement of Ron’s self-worth made him a prime target to take the jeers and shoves he would get from his classmates at school. His teachers often asked him uncertainly about the clothes he wore in hopes they could get him to wear something different to school to avoid at least some of his classmates’ more violent tomfoolery.

(Ron was able to convince them that he at least wore his homemade togas out of personal choice by way of claiming he was Italian. He did not want his classmates to think his father was not an upstanding member of the community after all, even if he had been cursed with a worthless ingrate of a child who wandered around the attic like he owned the place. In any other school system, claiming he was Italian to explain why he was wearing a bedsheet toga would not have worked. However, because the American public school system is a sham and a farce, everyone believed the legitimacy of this claim without question on grounds that it ‘sounded like it made sense’.)

Ron was sitting in the living room specifically because his father was not home from work yet, and he was enjoying the warmth from the central heating that did not quite reach the bundle of blankets he slept on in the attic because beds and bedrooms were expensive. His father needed all seven bedrooms in the house for important things like his bedroom, and his second bedroom for when he didn’t feel like sleeping in the main bedroom, and his office, and his second office that also had his computer in it, and his cigar room, and his fancy guest bedroom no one _ever_ slept in, and his room that he kept completely empty at all times because it was haunted. At least that was what he told Ron when Ron asked if maybe he could move his pile of blankets in there one particularly cold winter’s eve.

Ron’s giant blue eyes, curly blond hair, and tiny quaking frame hadn’t slept a wink that night, both from the wind leaking through the cracks in the side of the attic walls, and from his father’s threat that ghosts especially liked to eat children that looked like they crawled big-eyed and weeping from the pages of the most miserable Charles Dickens’ novel.

And so Ron sat, a week before Christmas, alone in the barren and grey McMansion in the living room he was usually not allowed in. In fact, Ron was not _officially_ allowed in any of the 27 rooms in the McMansion except for the attic, and he was quite grateful for that allotment as he was pretty sure if he had to sleep on the roof he would roll off of it in the night to his death.

However, due to the fact that Ron was a horrible, terrible child who is probably the reason his mother was dead (though Willy claimed not to remember exactly how that had happened) he found ways to sneak around the house that avoiding his father at every turn. For example, Ron had found that if he sat on his father’s hand-carved wooden rug instead of the sofa, his father would not notice an imprint left behind as he would on the furniture, and if he used the light from the window his dad would not notice a spike in the electricity bill, and if Ron stayed in the living room and never left he could hear when his dad’s Ferrari pulled into the driveway so he could scurry back up to the attic before he ever got inside.

Also because Ron was a terrible, horrible young man, he would also, on occasion, quietly sing to himself to calm down when he was feeling sad or alone or scared. Sometimes, and this was definitely the worst, even when his father was home. But he would always stop at least for a while when his dad yelled at him, so he wasn’t as bad as he could be, or so he told himself.

Tracing the words on one of the pages of the book, Ron started singing quietly to himself. Literally, because Ron was able to sing in two voices at once like some kind of demon, and though he harmonized well with himself it was probably one of the most batshit things a human being has ever proven themselves capable of.

“ _Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child. Holy Infant so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly peeeeee-eeeace, sleep in heavenly peace…”_

Suddenly there was the telltale sound of a powerful six hundred cylinder engine roaring in the driveway, and in a moment Ron got to his feet, book clutched in his hands as he bolted out of the living room so fast he didn’t even notice the almost microscopic bit of dirt he left behind on the wooden rug, besmirching its wood service with a small scuff as evidence of his presence.

*

Willy Stampler had a very good day at work. He had brokered three new deals selling fishing gear to little old ladies he thought would never use it and got to kick no less than three cats and one puppy over the course of the afternoon. He even ran over a squirrel on the way home, even though he had to run up onto the curb to do it, and therefore was in a very good mood when he got home to his impressively large, very dark house in the early evening.

He was quite pleased so see none of the lights were on when he got home. Dark was cheap, and Willy liked it. He especially liked the fact that when it was dark, he could practice skulking in the hallways and if he happened to catch his no-good son out of the attic he could stealthily drop kick him out a window.

The first time Willy had done such a thing he had been drunk, and was quite concerned that Ron had been hurt (urgh, he wasn’t gonna take him to the hospital but the whining was awful) or worse, killed (no more tax write off, well, unless he neglected to mention he was deceased…). He had immediately rushed to his office to start looking up if he was liable in the case his child accidentally fell out a window while at home when Ron had appeared in his doorway looking no worse for the wear aside from a little damp from the rain.

He had asked Willy what he was allowed to eat for dinner and Willy had responded wittily by farting loudly and telling him to eat shit. He hadn’t seen Ron in person for several weeks after that but eventually spotted him out the corner of his eye while watching television and decided that was a good enough proof of life as anything.

Actually, since the day he had drop kicked his son out of the window, he hadn’t spoken to his son more than raising his voice to tell him to behave himself wherever he was whenever he went to work. He was never in the same room. He would occasionally see Ron in the corner of his eye, could have sworn he threw a few broken bottles at him when he was drunk, but other than that…

Willy paused in his doorway as he looked out into the dark, cavernous foyer beyond. How long ago had it been since that day he drop kicked his son from the window? Two, three years? The day after he had experimented with taking the kid fishing in hopes his high pitched screams would attract the fish. His line had snapped on a big one and he’d been especially mad the next while…

Oh well, Willy put the thought from his mind and went inside. A namby pamby sissy boy might have had an existential moment where they questioned if their son was dead and he was being haunted by his son’s ghost. But Willy Stampler was a Manly Man’s Man Who Manned Up, and therefore did not believe in shitty girly things like ghosts and werewolves and vampires and deodorant and Democrats and Subway sandwiches.

And so Willy Stampler pulled off his shoes, tucking them neatly into the hallway closet and squinting around to be sure no one else had dared leave any of their outwear there, or else did so much as upturn a cuff on one of his suit jackets. He wandered through no less than seven rooms until he reached his kitchen, which is how you know how fancy his house was and how successful a business Willy Stampler ran.

He opened his first beer of the night (his last being at the bar after work) and grabbed the rest of the 24 pack of Bud Lite to drag back to the living room for a night of watching Professional Wrestling (an extremely manly sport full of manly men in tight tight costumes that showed off their manly man muscles) while sucking back as many lite beers as possible before he passed out. (To be clear, all beer was a man’s drink and women were not allowed to drink any beers so Willy preferring the taste of lite beers was very much still manly thank you very much).

However, just as Willy was starting to get his buzz on in his favoured recliner chair and was about to turn on the television when he heard a whispery, eerie harmony of voices echoing through the ceiling from above as though carried on a faint breeze.

_“Silent night, holy night. Daddy’s home, stay out of sight. Stealthily hide till he falls asleep, you can get food if you quietly creep. Daddy’s home, hide away. Daddy’s home, hide away…”_

“What in the Sam Hill fuck?” Willy craned his neck up. Did… was that Ron? Nah, couldn’t be, unless he had a friend over and that kid was too fucking weird to have made a friend. Playing music, maybe? “HEY! SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

There was silence, and Willy sighed, comfortably settling into his chair again. However, just as he reached for the remote, he heard again. _“Silent night, holy night. Go to sleep… it’s alright… I will protect you from losing face, though I am worthless, a total disgrace. Daddy’s home, hide away Daddy’s home-”_

“SINGING’S GAY!” Willy screamed to the rafters.

At last there was quiet and Willy wiggled back into his seat again, a satisfied smirk on his face as he turned on the 124 inch plasma screen wall mounted surround sound blu-ray ultra-smart mega pixel TV that only he was allowed to use.

However, instead of pro-wrestling, a giant image of an old man loomed at him from the screen. A face he knew all too well.

“Jacob Marlini? Is that you?” Willy blinked, “My old fishing rod sales partner who died by falling into a lake using one of our faulty fishing lures?”

“YES, IT IS I. TONIGHT YOU WILL BE VISITED BY THREE SPIRITS WHO WILL TEACH YOU THE MEANING OF CHRISTMAS.”

Willy rolled his eyes and farted very loudly. Jacob frowned.

“IF YOU DO NOT LISTEN, YOU WILL GO STRAIGHT TO HELL!”

“Uh no, I’m not gay, unlike YOU you big queer-mo.”

“DON’T BE STUPID, GAYS GO TO MEGA TURBO ULTASONIC SUPERHELL. I’M TALKING REGULAR HELL.”

“Oh, phht, I don’t believe in that. I only believe in the American dollar, the patriarchy, and my right as an American to fart on whoever I please.”

“COME ON BUDDY, WE DO THIS EVERY YEAR. PLEASE. JUST… JUST DON’T FART ON THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST THIS TIME, HE KEPT CRYING FOR WEEKS…”

“Heh, what a fairy.”

“YES HE WAS A LITERAL FAIRY AND HE ALMOST CHOKED TO DEATH.”

“Jacob, get the fuck off my TV. I don’t believe in stupid homo ghosts, okay?”

“I HAVE LITERALLY BEEN CONTACTING YOU FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE EVERY YEAR AT CHRISTMAS FOR THE LAST FIVE YEARS. JUST… COME ON. AT LEAST FILL OUT MY PUNCH CARD TO SAY I TRIED OR ELSE I HAVE TO GO BACK TO SITTING IN THE SHIT PILE RING OF HELL FOR ANOTHER CENTURY OF HELL TIME. I JUST WANT A TRANSFER TO LUST, IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?”

“No way, I don’t sign things. Fuck off Marlini, I want to watch something manly, like wrestling, or Antique Roadhouse.”

“YOU KNOW WHAT? FINE. I’LL LEAVE. BUT I’M BLOWING OUT YOUR TV SUCKERRRRR!”

And then there was a gigantic fart noise that blew through the speakers, deafening Willy in his left ear and vibrating his TV right off the wall where it smashed on the ground in a million pieces.

Willy stared at the mess on the floor for a few seconds. Then he noticed that on his extra varnished carved wooden rug, there was a very tiny scuff mark.

“Ron did this,” Willy whispered, a manic gleam in his eyes, drunk off the sweet syrup of Bud Lite. “RON, I SAW THE MESS YOU LEFT IN THE LIVING ROOM YOU LITTLE SHIT! YOU GET OUT HERE AND CLEAN IT THE FUCK UP BEFORE I GET BACK!”

Without waiting for an answer, Willy Stampler marched to the front door, left the house, got in his car, drove around the block, and parked around the corner. Then he got out of his car, army crawled across his neighbour’s lawn, and peeked in his front window to see the waif-like form of a young boy in a white toga dutifully picking up bits of broken glass with bloody fingers, his skin glowing in the light from the streetlamps outside.

… yeah, he was alive then. Ghosts don’t bleed. No such things as ghosts anyway. Willy walked in the front door and listened gleefully to the gasp and pattering feet in the living room before getting in position to grab his son on his way out. He grasped the panting boy by the ankles, swung him in the circle, and sent him flying perfectly out his living room’s picture window in a shatter of glass so as to land on the front lawn outside.

“CLEAN THAT UP TOO, BRAT!” Willy Stampler yelled. He paused for a second, watching his son’s unmoving, limp body out on the front lawn. “Eh, he’s fine.”

Willy picked up the rest of his twenty-four pack and headed leisurely back to his kitchen. He opened the fridge to set the beers neatly inside, only to find a tiny, wide-eyed, dark haired creature with sparkly wings and a wand sitting inside with a very, very tight smile.

“Mr. Stampler!” the fairy squeaked, “As you may remember, I am the ghost Christmas Past-ACK!”

Willy grabbed the fairy around the neck with one meaty fist, dragged it out of the fridge, and calmly walked it over to the kitchen sink. He put a plug in the sink and pressed the fairy to the bottom of the basin before grabbing his heaviest serving dish from dish rack and nestled it onto the fairy so it couldn’t move. Then he turned the water on.

“OH COME ON! LET ME GO! I’LL LEAVE! I’LL LEAVE! NO ONE HAS TO KNOW! HEEEEELP!” The Ghost of Christmas Past wailed as Willy grabbed one more beer, which he opened as he began to march out of the kitchen.

As he stepped out of the kitchen into the dark hallway beyond, he nearly tripped over the edge of the wall-to-wall kitchen carpet in the wake of a loud crash of cymbals, a drum roll, and VERY loud horns.

This was followed by the deep dulcet tones of Tony of the Tiger ringing out from nowhere, and Willy Stampler growled in irritation.

“ _You're a mean one, Stamp-e-ler. You’re a stinking, rotten, stump! You're as stingy as Jeff Benzos, and as rude as Donald Trump, Mr. Staaaaamp-LER! You’re a glass of sour milk, ooh, with sus-pi-cious luuuuuumps!”_

“MUSIC IS FOR HOMOSEXUALS!” Willy Stampler declared loudly as he began searching the room for Tony the Tiger in a toga with a fig-leaf crown, his usual outfit for fulfilling his Ghost-Of-Christmas-Present duties. Willy always knew that tiger was too hot to be straight, and this musical number just proved it.

“ _You're a monster, Stamp-e-ler. Your voooooice haunts chiiiiiildren’s sleep! You say Fox News are rebels and you call your doctors sheep, Mr. Staaaaaamp-LER! You think it was misandry when the girl you followed out of the bar last week, called you a creeeeeeeep_!”

“Hey! She was asking for it, walking out of the house while in possession of tits!” Willy snapped as he opened the lid his piano that he had for show and never used and found Tony the Tiger laid out luxuriously along the keys with a microphone in hand. He sat up with a feral smile as Willy glared at him. “GET THE FUCK OUT, YOU FRUITLOOP WANNABEE! I GOT RID OF YOU FIVE TIMES, I’LL DO IT AGAIN, YOU STRIPED CUCK!”

Tony the Tiger did get out of the piano, but proceeded to dance out of the way of each of Willy’s attempted punches as he continued to sing.

“ _You're a vile one, Stamp-e-ler. You have termites iiiiin your shed! They will slowly eat your wood beams till the roof falls on your head, Mr. Staaaaamp-LER_!” Tony paused at Willy’s incredulous look and shrugged. “ _Okay fine, after five years of this I started running out of verses, but can you really blame me for WISHING YOU WERE DEAAAAAD!”_

Willy missed his sixth punch and panted. It seemed that Mr. Tiger had been practicing in the last year. Fine, he would just have to use his smarts instead, no biggie.

“Look, it’s bee from Honey Nut Cheerios!” Willy pointed over Tony’s shoulder.

“Nice try Stampler, but that bee died years ago! Bees don’t actually live that long!” Tony laughed as Willy swore at his misfortune.

“You know what? I’m glad! I wish all the bees were gone! They’re all wish-washy girly tree-hugger bullshit bugs anyway!”

Tony shook his head in disbelief. “ _You're a foul one, Stamp-e-ler. You're a homo-phobic nut! If you cannot call it manly, then it’s fruity as a slut, Mr. Staaaaaaamp-LER! The three words that best describe you are as follows, and I quote: ‘CLASSLESS! ASSLESS! CUNT!_ ’” Between each of those three words, Tony dodged a punch, a kick, and a full attempt at a football tackle that ended with Willy crashing headfirst into the piano and demolishing it.

“Shit! That piano cost almost as much as my Ferrari!” Willy swore, “And I already spent all the money my wife left for Ron’s college fund!”

“ _You're a rotter, Stamp-e-ler. Of all the bad dads, you’re the WORST! Though you drive a red Ferrari, rather see you in a hearse, Mr. Staaaaaamp-LER! Your head is so far up your ass, that if you were to stick out your tongue and wiggle it, you could play your ribs like a xylophone. HERE COMES THE LAST VEEEERSE_!”

“Oh no it doesn’t, you… you fucking… FURRY!”

Tony blinked, frozen in confusion. “…What the fuck is a furry?”

In that moment of distraction, Willy grabbed one of the legs from the collapsed grand piano and smashed Tony over the head where he collapsed to the floor in pain. Willy then kicked him in the crotch, grabbed him by the tail and started dragging him to the front door. From out the window he could see that Ron was no longer in the front yard so he either came to or was kidnapped. Either way, wasn’t his problem anymore.

To his chargin, Tony kept singing in a raspy voice between bubbles of blood as Willy dragged him out to the sidewalk by the trash bins. “ _You’re a shit-lord, Stamp-e-ler. That’s right you, smell like, SHIT! Your son deserves a bedroom, give him one you greedy shit! Mr. Staaaaaaaaamp-ler_!” Willy lifted Tony the Tiger and slam dunked him into an empty trash can, slamming the lid on top, muffling the voice within as he walked resolutely back to his house. _“If you think I’m going to waste my time on a rhyme here rather than call you a piece of shit again, **TOUGH LUCK YOU DUMB SHIIIIIIIT**_!”

Willy hoped shutting the front door would’ve silenced the last word there, but he had forgotten he had broken the front window with his son’s head earlier. With an irritated growl, Willy walked back to the kitchen only to find the sink was turned off and the fairy was gone.

Whatever. He left and headed upstairs, choosing to enjoy his second bedroom tonight. He walked in to find the skeletal face of death wrapped in a dark shroud standing over his bed.

“ **WILLY STAMPLER. I HAVE COME FOR YOU.”**

Willy Stampler started taking his clothes off.

**“WAIT. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”**

Willy took off his underwear and on the bed.

**“OH FUCK NOT THIS AGAIN. YOU ARE HOMOPHOBIC. I AM GENDERLESS BUT I KNOW FACT YOU READ ME AS MALE. WHY DO YOU DO THIS EVERY YEAR? ALSO I DON’T EVEN HAVE GENITALS ITS ALL BONE.”**

“There’s nothing more manly than fucking over Death.” Willy wiggled his eyebrows and Death gagged.

**“FUCK THIS SHIT I’M OUT.”** Death punched out Willy’s window and jumped out headfirst.

“What a fucking fairy-ass gay-ass fruit-ass sissy-ass slut!” Willy complained about being rejected for the sixth year in a row as he got under his covers and glared at the broken window. He turned on his lamp and got ready to read one of the only three things in the world that were not gay to read, the mail. (The other two were the sports section of the newspaper and 4chan posts).

The first piece of mail was from the tax department. Huh, not great.

Dear, Mr. Stampler. It has come to our attention that the spouse you have been claiming on your tax forms is, in fact, deceased.

“FUCK! Who told them? I don’t want to pay more taxes! They might use some of it to help poor and sick people! How dare they try to make me altruistic on Christmas, the bastards!” Willy gasped, only to hear the deep, loud laughter of Tony the Tiger leaking in from outside on the wind. Willy growled, reached under his bed for his AK47, and marched down the stairs to the front door.

Upstairs in the dirty attic window, Ron watched his dad lift a trash can lid and hurriedly covered his eyes.


	4. Homo Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill Close infiltrates Willy Stampler's house with a proposal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter is The Other Side from The Greatest Showman. Please listen before reading but like... I get it if it's hard to follow the beat if you're not super familiar with the song.
> 
> I don't care I got to do a homo-side/homicide pun I'm happy.

**Chapter 4: Homo Side**

Willy Stampler poured milk into a bowl on his kitchen table as his socks building up static on the wall-to-wall kitchen carpet. Then he deliberately reached for his box of Weetabix (the only cereal for men) to pour into the bowl of milk. It was just another day in the world of Willy Stampler. 

Once the milk had splashed over the table (he would yell at Ron for that later) he looked up at the mounted Tiger head that he had stapled to the wall overlooking the breakfast nook with a sense of pride as he waited the compulsory ten seconds for the Weetabix to absorb the milk and turn into its true form, a semi-edible sludge.

Yes, the severed head of one of his enemies was just what his kitchen needed. Really spruced up the place.

Being a Saturday in December just before Christmas in California, Willy was looking forward to a day of golfing with some of his work associates later in the afternoon. He was especially looking forward to using this new golf course, because it was touted as being the biggest the country had ever produced. The holes were so far apart that you had to travel nearly half an hour by golf cart to get between them, and there was so much grass that the sprinkler system used as much water in three days as half the houses in San Dimas did in a month.

The height of luxury and manliness, Big Boy’s Putt Putt Bonanza was sure to be fun for the whole Stampler Fishing Gear and Associates “family”. (Family here meaning a group of businessmen who only know about each other’s families complaining about how shitty and ungrateful they are as a group.)

It would be good to get out of the house and not think about his impending audit for tax fraud. He was extremely concerned about the government forcibly taking his hard-stolen money and giving it to the less fortunate, but at the moment his hands felt tied. It was an unjust system, but damn it, there were some things even Willy Stampler wasn’t sure how to punch. So instead he concentrated on his upcoming golf game, just to keep his spirits up.

Of course for doing such manly activities as swinging a stick at a tiny ball and screaming bad words when it lands in a no no spot, Willy needed his strength, and so sat at his table and reached for his spoon to begin his morning meal. Then he heard his doorbell buzz.

Willy smiled and reached for the glock he kept hidden under his table at all times. If it was that Tupperware Lady come to invite him to one of her ‘parties’ again, he would have a matching head for the other side of the kitchen.

Everyone knew _real_ men didn’t own containers. They either ate all their food or left it loose in the fridge to evolve sentience so it would be more exciting to slaughter later, as nature intended.

If he were less manly, Willy could have skipped as he headed for the front door. He ripped it open and pointed his gun through it in one fluid motion. “NO ONE WANTS YOUR VENT ‘N SERVE SOUP MUGS, BRENDA!”

But then Willy paused, because no one was at the door.

“Huh,” Willy said as he slowly lowered his gun and peered up and down the street looking for hooligans ringing doorbells that he could use as target practice. But no one was in sight. That was disappointing.

He shut the door and headed back to the kitchen, only to nearly jump out of his skin when he found a male hooker sitting at his breakfast table eating his cereal.

“Oh, hey Willy. So this is what rich people eat, huh? Gross,” the hooker said as he took another bite. Willy immediately aimed his gun and fired.

“Yo, what the fuck!” the hooker gasped as the bullet grazed the edge of where his uncomfortably long, greasy rattail met his head, making the hair frizz and hiss as the hooker jumped out of the chair. “Look man, I haven’t eaten since last night!”

“I don’t give a fuck!” Willy tried to fire again but the gun only clicked. Out of bullets already? Well, there HAD been a lot of charities at his door that week for Christmas… damn it. “How the fuck did you get in my house, anyway?”

“Oh, your front window’s broken. It was like that when I got there though, and if you try to sue me it won’t matter cause I’m broke.”

Willy glared at the intruder. “Well that doesn’t fucking mean you can just walk in, you whore. You-” he frowned as he looked at the hooker more closely. “Wait, I’ve seen you somewhere before…”

The hooker’s face lit up in a bright smile that turned his sunken eyes and pallid skin about twenty years younger, and the truth hit Willy before he’d even said a word. “It’s me! Good ol’ college roomie-”

“Bill Close,” Willy’s eyes flashed as he threw the gun aside and punched Bill directly in the jaw.

“AW! Oh, ooooh Willy,” Bill moaned from the floor, cradling his mouth in one hand and looking up at him from half-lidded eyes. “You sure do make a guy feel welcome.”

As Willy watched Bill writhe on the floor, he was filled with nothing but disgust as his eyes angrily traced the curve of his skin-tight leather pants with scientific rage. There was no logical way Bill should have been able to put those pants on, and yet, there they were. Things Willy did not understand were automatically crimes, and Bill had been a criminal by that count from the moment they had met.

~* _College Dorm Room Flashback Jingle*~_

**_“What the fuck,” nineteen-year-old Willy Stampler said in a flat voice as he opened the door to his dorm room only to not be able to see a goddamn fucking thing through all the pot smoke._**

**_“DUDE, you my new roommate? You’re so ugly it’s hot,” a disembodied voice called through the smoke. “Come in here and take my pic with my new 1971 iPhone okay? I just got an entire beer bottle up my ass and I want to send a pic to this hot librarian that yelled at me earlier. You know that a girl in her seventies with a hair bun that tight pegs like a champion.”_ **

_~*College Dorm Room Flashback End Jingle*~_

Willy gagged at the memory. He had left the dorm room immediately after and spent the next several hours strangling squirrels behind the business building before he felt calm enough to go back. He had largely avoided Bill Close for the next six months until one day he came back to their shared room to find literally all his stuff stolen and Bill gone with absolutely no way to trace him aside from his iPhone number.

The one time Willy had called him on it, Bill had just farted into the phone, to which Willy had farted back and they had farted several times more before the phone operator begged them both to please stop, they were wasting their minutes.

He had not heard from Bill again after that day. Until now.

“The fuck are you doing in my kitchen, Bill?”

“Enjoying the carpet mostly. Is this made of cashmere? Man, you’re rich as fuck. Is that a tiger head on the wall? That’s righteous. Huh. You look mad. Ooh, you should hit me again, I deserve it.”

Willy kicked Bill in the ribs and his cheeks flushed as Bill writhed some more, moaning and curling in on himself. Something about this was off. Maybe it was the fact that Bill’s leather pants had instantly tented when he heard a rib crack. Probably that, yeah.

“Bill if you don’t tell me why the FUCK you’re here in the next five seconds, I’ll snap your goddamn dick off your body.”

“Mmm, promise?” Bill batted his eyelashes and Willy gagged again as he tried to compose himself.

“Fine, if you don’t tell me, I… _won’t_ hit you? And uh, I’ll… I’ll cut your fucking ponytail off!”

Bill gasped in horror as his hair instantly wrapped itself around his neck many times in fear. “No! You can’t mess with the rattail, man! He’s my chick magnet! Everyone knows only your girl fans buy band merch!”

“Then start talking! I’ve got a very busy day planned of playing golf, and trying to figure out how to get the government to keep giving me a spousal tax deduction when my wife’s been dead for seven years!”

“Did I just hear dead wife and tax benefits?” Bill perked up immediately. “Willy Stampler, what if I told you I had way for you to not only get your tax benefits, but also a brand new willing punching bag for all your most violent manly needs!”

That gave Willy pause. “And what way is that?”

Bill grinned. “Let’s get married!”

Willy frowned. “To who?”

“Each other, dude!”

Willy gagged so hard that time he threw up Weetabix all over his cashmere kitchen carpet, and he hadn’t even eat any Weetabix yet that morning.

“I’m not marrying you! Marrying a man is gay! I’m too manly to do that!”

“Okay, but hear me out. If we got married, we could claim we were living common law before this, and your spousal claim was actually for me this whole time! You won’t have to pay back taxes or anything!”

Willy squinted at Bill for a long, long time. “I’m going to the bar. If you’re still in this house when I get back, I will literally kill you. If you take anything out of this house with you I will find you, and then literally kill you. Unless you take Ron, I guess. God I fucking hate Ron so much.”

Bill shrugged. “That’s cool, I’ll come with you. I haven’t had a drink for like, a whole hour.”

Willy growled under his breath but didn’t argue with Bill. Instead he turned on his heel and marched out of the kitchen, through his house and out the front door, locking it behind him without looking to see if Bill had tried following him.

He tread to the Ferrari in his driveway and lifted the extra fancy door that opened upward and got inside.

“Nice car! Are we going to a rich people bar? Hope you’re buying cause like I said, I’m broke as fuck!”

Willy’s eyes widened as his head slowly turned inch by inch to see Bill Close in his passenger seat. “How… how did you get in my car?”

“Picked the lock.” Bill shrugged. “What? I’m good at crimes.”

“Blue collar crimes,” Willy said (derogatorily) and started his car, locked the windows, and loosed a very loud fart as he peeled out of the driveway.

“Nice one! Heh, bet that old man cereal helps with those, huh?” Bill sounded impressed, which was definitely not the reaction Willy had been hoping for. Willy glared out the front window as he pushed down on the gas pedal, his mood fouling so much that he barely cracked a smile when an elderly man crossing the street had to throw himself out of the way of his car.

“Hey, mind if I pre-drink?” Bill asked, pulling out a flask and knocking back a swallow without waiting for an answer. Willy rolled his eyes and reached over to the glove box, popping it open to pull out his own, diamond-encrusted flask full of $1000 bourbon.

“Mind if I do?” Willy asked, cocking an eyebrow as he took both hands off the wheel and drove with his knees while he opened the flask and took a deep swig.

“Oh shit, aren’t you worried about cops, man?”

“No, I’m rich. All crime is legal if you can pay for the legal fees.”

“Fuck I love rich people,” Bill sighed, snuggling back in the seat as his rattail wrapped itself around the headrest, leaving grease marks on the leather. “Look at us! Driving in a fancy car, drinking out of flasks, running over pedestrians… we make a good team. We should definitely get married.”

Willy growled loudly, taking out his frustration on flowerbed in front of a daycare center, leaving naught by fancy tire tracks in its place. “I TOLD you Bill, I CAN’T marry you because that’s GAY.”

Bill rolled his eyes as Willy sped out of the suburb and onto the city streets where he was forced to stop and wait in the more congested traffic. He revved his engine repeatedly to make some extra smog and honked his horn to make his displeasure known, but even Willy Stampler knew there was no breaking through traffic this deep.

He glanced at Bill to find the man scratching his stubble as he looked right back at him with an uncharacteristic look of intense thought on his face.

Then he snapped his fingers. “Maybe I’m not getting through to you. I do my best convincing… in song form.”

Willy started honking his horn and revving his engine more frantically, but Bill started drumming on the glove box and there was no escape as he began humming out some opening notes.

“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at, Close?!” Willy snapped, horrified to realise his honking was now matching Bill’s infectious rhythm.

“ _Right here, right now. I put the offer out. I don’t chase people down, but I know you see it.”_ Bill leaned his face in close to Willy, who jolted backward with a terrified squeak. “ _Just mar-ry me. And I can cut you free. Out of those stupid Liberal laws you’re caught in!”_

That got Willy’s attention and he recomposed himself just in time for him to move forward a couple of inches with the traffic, and for Bill to spring up and wrap his skinny arms around Willy’s burly neck so he could sing directly into Willy’s ear. Oh god, did he just feel **_tongue_**? “ _So trade your audit in! And get less Republican. And if it’s crazy, live a little crazy!”_

Willy jabbed Bill in the side with his pocket knife, which did make him let go and hold his now bloodied side in pain, only to then make eye contact with the man who stabbed him and lick his lips. What the fuck was WRONG with this guy?!

“ _We can play it criminal! It’s not emotional. Don’t you want to risk it all and see?”_

That’s when Bill hit the button to open Willy’s largely unused sun roof feature. Since he never put on a seatbelt, Bill had no trouble climbing out onto the roof, dangling his feet in Willy’s face as he sang to the sky and the people around who were now turning to look **_fuck Willy did not want to be associated with this pansy-ass theatre kid_.** _“Don’t! you! wanna get away? From the same! Old! bills you gotta pay? Cause I got what you need, come on and take this Bill for a ride! I’ll take you to the homo side.”_

“Get down from there! You look stupid!” Willy tried to protest, but Bill just sang louder, drumming on the roof of his car now.

 _“Cause you can do like chumps do. Or you can just do me!”_ Bill lifted his feet to balance on the other side of the sun roof and thrust his crotch up to the heavens. _“Wrap me in chains, and I’ll never ask for a key! Hot, damn! Come on dude, you know I’m fly! I’ll take you to the homo side.”_

Willy took a deep breath, glared at nothing, then as soon as he saw a gap in the traffic between two eighteen-wheelers he slammed on the gas and got into that narrow space with enough speed that Bill lost his balance, shrieking as he fell right through the sun roof and drove the gear shift right into his spine.

Then the eighteen-wheeler behind them, which obviously did not see the tiny Ferrari dart in front of it, ploughed directly into them. As the truck did not stop, and the one in front of them had nowhere to go even if it had seen them, the Ferrari slowly began to crumple around Willy and Bill’s fragile human bodies.

“FUCK, BAIL!” Bill screamed, fighting the pain to try crawling back out the roof. Willy grabbed him by the waist and forced him back down as he scrambled out the roof himself (obviously he wasn’t wearing a seat belt either, due to, you know, homophobia). Willy tucked and rolled onto the sidewalk, followed by Bill who exited the roof while swearing up a storm seconds later.

Willy jumped up and down and swore a lot, but traffic started moving again, and the eighteen-wheelers continued forward down the street carrying the crushed Ferrari between them.

Bill leaned in toward Willy again as he stared after his crushed car with the demeanor of a broken man.

“You know, if you married me, you could sue those guys for committing a hate crime, too. Also, we’re right outside my favourite bar!”

Willy sighed deeply, shutting his eyes as the thud of bass from said bar bled onto street amid the thunder of marching feet from all the idiots out shopping on a Saturday like women. Sure, a lot of them _were_ women, but that was no excuse for being gay. Speaking of…

 _“Okay, that’s gay. Though I see your point, I guess. But you’d look dumb as shit in a wed-ding dress.”_ If anyone asked, Willy was not singing. He was talking. In a rhythm. Totally different.

Bill looked so offended by his words that Willy even smirked as he kept up his… rhythmic talking. _“So thanks, but no. I can find a hotter hoe. And I can run your stupid con without you.”_

Bill made to open his mouth again but Willy slapped a hand over it, walking forward swiftly until Bill was pinned against the brick of the bar’s storefront façade. Though he was also doing his damnedest to keep their crotches from touching while he did it, so it looked a little awkward. _“I don’t think much of you, that fruity shit you do. You’re good for nothing, and yet you’re on to something. But I can find a second wife. Why should I let you in my life? Ain’t worth my while to say ‘I do’!”_

Willy grabbed the fiercely blushing Bill by the collar and practically dragged him into the bar without paying any heed to its name, patrons or décor. He clocked where the wet bar was and kept dragging Bill by the neck as he strode toward it, and as he did so he belted over the thudding bass. (But he still would insist he was **_not_** singing. He was… shouting. Shouting is very manly.)

_“DON’T! YOU! know that I’m not gay! And I DON’T! LIKE! this game you want to play! Cause I got what I want, and I don’t want your stinking ride! I don’t need your gay-ass homo side.”_

(Okay, fine, maybe as Willy reached the bar and released his companion’s neck you MIGHT argue he was dancing, but it was fine because he was doing it to mock Bill for ‘dancing’ earlier.) His feet criss-crossed and he jumped as he mimed swinging a golf club around.

 _“So go and do like sluts do! I’ve got some golf to tee!”_ He threw a hundred down on the bar and immediately twelve shots appeared at the whim of his violent rich daddy vibe. He threw one back. _“I won’t be chained to a poofter who smells like pee! Fuck you Bill, cause if you keep wasting my time, I’m gonna com-mit homicide!”_

Bill grabbed two shots at once, poured them both in his mouth at the same time, and then dropped to his knees and knelt submissively at Willy’s feet. The pout on his face sent a shudder down Willy’s spine. _“Now is this really how you’d like to spend your day? Whiskey and misery, is smiling too gay?”_

Willy rolled his eyes to hide his discomfort and shoved his foot directly into Bill’s face. _“If I were to marry you, it would be my worst day. Disgraced and de-manned, another one of the fae.”_

Bill grabbed Willy’s very expensive trouser leg and rubbed his head far too close to Willy’s manly bits for comfort. _“But a wife needs clothes and bling! Ol’ Bill don’t need a thing. Just give me a roof, three squares, maybe a beating and I’ll-”_

Willy finally managed to kick Bill off and away from him, and then proceeded to start kicking him in the ribs even as Bill started to sing again around bubbles of blood. It was like the Furby Willy had gotten for Ron because he heard they traumatized children that somehow still had a working voice box after it had been repeatedly smashed with a hammer. 

So, like a wounded but not dead Furby, Bill sang, _“Work the streets to cure my aching. Give you a cut of what I’m making. Now that’s a deal that seems worth taking.”_

Then, Bill’s broken and bloody face turned up to meet Willy’s, and seeing this man, this sissy man looking at him covered in the evidence of Willy’s anger and violent urges… it did things to him. Things he could neither explain nor talk about or really even think about because frankly, if Willy ever came to the conclusion that he had a gay thought, he would instantly implode into a supernova and take the continental United States down with him just to be mean.

No. He couldn’t consider this. It was gay. Homoerotic, even. He wouldn’t… he couldn’t… consider… he shut his eyes as Bill crawled to his feet and leaned heavily against his chest, where he could probably feel how fast Willy’s heart was hammering. He had to think logically.

Well, his car was busted thanks to this dick-loving hugger-mugger. Mayhaps it wouldn’t hurt to use his whore-money to pay off his legal fees at least.

Then Bill whispered, _“And it’s not gay if the balls don’t touch…”_

Willy’s eyes snapped open and he pushed Bill backwards so that his butt hit the bar hard enough to bruise. Then he was up in Bill’s face even as the dirtier man blindly grabbed another shot with a shaking hand.

“ _Well, that's intriguing, but this plan would cost me greatly. So what percentage of your pay would I be taking_?”

Smirking and shoving another shot glass into Willy’s hand, Bill bit out a chuckle. “ _Fair enough, you'd want a piece of all this action. I'd give you fifteen, we could kiss and make it happen_.”

Bill leaned in with a pucker, only to be met with a giant yaoi hand in his face, the other equally giant hand shaking his finger patronizingly. “ _Nice try Bill, but I’m worth more. Seventy would be just fine_!”

That was met with Bill pouring another shot into his mouth just to spray it into Willy’s face. “ _Holy shit have you gone crazy? Fuck you! Now my offer’s nine_.”

Willy mopped off his face with a grunt. “ _Eighty_.”

“ _I'd do eight_.”

“ _Ninety.”_

“ _Maybe nine_.”

Willy folded his arms and really looked at Bill for a minute. Muscular, dark hair, big eyes… he’d probably pull in a decent amount if he had some good marketing behind him.

Besides, if they were married and Willy got annoyed and killed Bill then he’d get all his money anyway. So.

Willy smirked. “ _Fifty_.”

Bill’s eyebrows nearly rose to his hairline, but he put out his hand anyway. “Looks like you have yourself a husband.”

Willy bared his teeth. “What I have is an ungrateful residential tenant.”

“Works for me!”

There was a bit of a pause as both of them went through a few more shots at the bar and Willy started finally looking around at many creative renditions of the rainbow flag around the room and the naked men dancing in cages at the front of the room to the thrumming bassline over which nothing resembling music could be heard.

“Hey Bill?”

“Yeah, Willy?”

“Are we in a gay bar?”

“Yeah?”

Willy threw up Weetabix again.

*

One whirlwind, drunken spinning montage later, Bill was steering Willy into the court house and high fiving one of his favourite clients behind the counter as they signed their marriage papers. Willy had been singing for the last twenty minutes and had no idea where he was, but strangely his dancing had been getting better the drunker he got.

Bill and Willy stood on the street outside the San Dimas court house holding their marriage certificate in the air and screaming to the people in the street who were walking very fast to get around them.

“ _We! can’t! pray the gay away! So we got! Us! some new cards we can play! We’ll both get what we want, so I’ll marry you and take the ride! To the homo side_!”

“ _So if you scam like I do_!” Willy spun on the spot and pointed finger guns at Bill.

“ _So if you hoe like me_!” Bill pointed finger guns back.

“ _Wait singing’s gay, fuck Bill what did you do to me_?” Willy suddenly gasped, his moment of sobering clarity disrupting the rhyme scheme until Bill grabbed him by the shoulder to steady him.

“ _No, bro! Don’t worry we’re just dudes being guuuuuys_!” He grinned as he tucked the marriage papers away and avoided Willy’s punch neatly as he teased. “ _Just going to the homo side. So if you lie like I do!”_

Willy roared and grabbed Bill around the neck to strangle him, much to his ecstatic joy. “ _So if you **kill** like me_!”

“ _Man if you do, you’re still on the homo side_!” Bill moaned as his obscenely tight pants tightened even more as he instinctively thrust his hips in Willy’s direction.

Willy bellowed as he shook his prey harder. _“ **I’M GONNA COM-MIT HOMICIDE**!”_

But Bill’s neck did not break, because if Death was ghosting Willy, they refused to even acknowledge that Bill existed. So Willy was gay married to Bill Close, and there was no escape.

"Oh by the way, I've got my son staying with me right now that's gonna move in, too. That's cool, right?"

Willy screamed.


	5. Willy It's Cold Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill moves in, Willy adjusts to married life, and Ron and Glenn meet their new stepdads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter is the traditional Christmas dub-con ballad, "Baby It's Cold Outside". Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 5: Willy It’s Cold Outside**

After his impromptu marriage, Willy Stampler went home and drank until he passed out in one of the rooms in his house that he didn’t use very often, namely the second dining room that was done up to look like a long board room table that he had designed under the thought that he might be able to use it if his office ever caught fire and he had to have a meeting over the internet, and wanted to look professional.

However, because it was either the eighties or early nineties, the internet hadn’t really gotten to the point of being much use in the Fishing Product Supplier industry. As a result, the Home Office Boardroom dining set lay forgotten at the back of the house and when Willy woke he spent the next several hours sitting quietly at the table wondering how he had gotten in to work on a weekend while smashed out of his mind, and terrified to leave the room with vomit all over his shirt. The eerie whispers of his potentially judgemental coworkers haunted him in those ensuing hours.

Eventually he would chance a look into the hallway beyond and realise his error with a special kind of embarrassment that is to be buried, never spoken of, and only reviewed in the dead of night in the midst of nightmares full of other such repressed memories.

But while Willy was trapped in his personal board room by his own fears regarding societal convention, Bill Close had gone back to his apartment to grab his stuff and tell his landlord to go fuck himself.

*

“Dad, uh, are you going somewhere?”

Bill Close looked up from the Uber he had been shoving garbage bags full of clothes into (the driver of said Uber was looking rather concerned as Bill forced the back door to shut with great difficulty). His son was walking up to him in front of his apartment building with his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Oh, hey Glem. Yeah, found a new place to crash. It’s pretty ritzy, but I got a full time sugar daddy now so it’s cool. I left your stuff upstairs. Uh, so I’m technically overdue on rent anyway, but the landlord said we got a couple of days before he can call the eviction office to throw us out so if you want to hang around the place a while longer that’s cool. I’m just leaving the mattresses, so it’s still a decent place to sleep.”

Glenn frowned at the bags filling the Uber. “Not that I care but, what the fuck am I supposed to do when the landlord kicks me out? Mom isn’t gonna be back for weeks.”

Bill paused for a second, tapping his foot in thought. “Can you crash with one of your friends?”

“Dad, it’s Christmas break. My friends’ parents are gonna want to know why I’m not with family and it’ll be super awkward.”

Bill frowned for a second, then ultimately shrugged. “Okay well, I’ll text you the address and you can come crash with me an’ Willy for a bit. Kind of warning you though, I’m deffo gonna be seducing the shit out of this guy so like, could be pretty awkward for you.”

Glenn winced and glanced back at the apartment a couple of times. “I mean, I guess it beats being homeless? But what the fuck do you mean you’re gonna text me? What’s texting?”

“Look, don’t worry about it. It’ll work itself out.” Bill waved off his son and leaned his full weight on the door again. “Hey man, help a bro out yeah?”

Glenn rolled his eyes, dropped his backpack on the ground, and between the two of them they managed to push the door shut with a strained click. “Thanks, Glem. Hey, don’t trash the place too bad on your way out, and just slide your key under the landlord’s door when you’re done. I’ll see you around, ‘kay?”

“Yeah, uh, not like there’s room for me in the car, huh?”

“Nope!” Bill said as he got into shotgun and slammed the door, immediately rolling down the window. “Bye, Glem!”

“Bye dad,” Glenn waved listlessly as the Uber sped away and Bill leaned back in his seat and dreamed about all the ways in which he was going to get Willy to break his body into pieces.

He reached Willy’s house in the upper middle class section of the San Dimas suburbs in record time. All it took was unlocking the back door for it to fly open and eject all of his garbage bags out of the car as though spring-propelled, where they sailed through the air in a wide arc and crashed right through the recently repaired living room window, unknowingly burying a very confused Ron Stampler under their bulk.

“Ha! What’d I say? Totally worked out!” Bill turned to the driver with a big thumbs up. “Nice one! What do I owe you?”

The driver looked him up and down for a second. “Road head going down the freeway. Twenty minutes worth.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “Steve, I’m a married man now. Again. I can’t be wasting time giving road head on the freeway. Handy on the way back from the liquor store or nothing.”

“Handy and twenty bucks.”

“I don’t give favours AND money, don’t be stupid.”

“Handy and twenty bucks worth of cheap booze.”

“DEAL.”

Bill hopped back in the car to pay the man while Ron slowly dug his way out of the mountain and wondered where his dad was.

*

By the time Bill had got back to Willy’s place and climbed in the broken window again, he was surprised to find half of his bags missing and one of them seemed to have grown legs and was hobbling out of the room.

“AH! My clothes are alive! Mom always said that would happen if I didn’t do the laundry ever! That’s wild!” Bill immediately tackled the moving trash bag to the ground, only getting off when he noticed a very small hand waving around under it. “Oh wait… shit, it’s just some kid.” Bill threw the trash bag aside and squinted down at the pasty-faced brat that was lying on the floor staring at him with extremely wide eyes.

“Are you here to rob my dad, sir?” The kid asked in a very small voice. Bill blinked.

“Willy is your dad?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bill frowned and cocked his head to one side. The kid’s hair was thin, blonde and curly, his eyes wide and bright blue, kind of waif-like and absolutely nothing like Willy. Still, Bill couldn’t think of another reason why there would be a kid in Willy’s house if it wasn’t his son. Also, hadn’t Willy mentioned having a son at some point? Maybe? Bill wasn’t sure.

Well, he’d play along for now. Painting a wide smile on his face, Bill crouched next to the kid, who hadn’t moved an inch since Bill discovered him. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Ron, sir.”

Bill paused and made a face. “Urgh, gross name. I’m just gonna call you kid. So kid, looks like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other since I just married your Daddy.”

Ron’s eyes widened. Bill’s smile did as well as he pulled out the marriage certificate and waved it in Ron’s face before tucking it away into his underwear again. The one place Willy wouldn’t dare look for it. 

“So I’m only gonna say this once. I’m the top bitch around here now. What I say goes. I’m you’re wicked stepfather, and you better comes to terms with that now. I’m Willy’s new number one, and if you try to do anything to take his attention off me for even one second? I’ll make your life a living hell. Got it?”

Ron stared at him with glassy eyes, but nodded, finally, with a neutral expression. Perfect.

“Now what’ve you been doing with my shit, kid? I had more bags than this.”

Ron blinked, a slow look of understanding crossing his face and he let loose a sigh that sounded far too world-weary for his apparent age. “Oh… I hoped that maybe someone just threw their garbage in the window? I, um, I thought maybe I could use the clothes so I didn’t have to wear towels anymore. I was taking them up to the attic, but I can bring them back down for you again if that’s what you want.”

“Towels? Oh yeah, that IS a towel. Weird, I thought it was a toga party in here. At least I’m not underdressed I guess. Why the fuck are you wearing a towel, kid?”

“My daddy told me that I can’t have clothes until I stop growing and buy them myself. It’s a waste of money.”

Bill stared at Ron for a second. “Huh. That… totally makes sense! Why the fuck do I waste money buying shit for Glem? I mean… I guess his mom mostly buys his stuff. But yeah, fuck Glem, he can pull his own weight! But wearing a towel? That’s some shitty elf shit. You really suck, kid.”

“I know, sir. Sorry, sir,” Ron mumbled. “P-permission to get up, sir?”

“Uh, yeah. Go get my stuff and bring it to Willy’s room. I’m doing this marriage right!”

“Y-yes sir,” Ron nodded, climbing to his feet and gathering a comically large bag to carry with him, clearly struggling under the weight. Bill sighed and flopped down on the remains of his pile of clothes, pulling a bottle of whiskey out of his liquor store bag and popping the top. Moving into a new place was exhausting.

*

Willy Stampler walked into his main bedroom to change his shirt and found the room full of trash bags.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” shouted Willy, as one does when one is still coming off the embarrassment high of having sat in a fake boardroom for hours for objectively no reason.

Then there was a groan amid the trash bags that were covering his bed, and Willy stomped over to the pile and pulled a bag aside to find none other than King Trash Bag himself. Bill Close was all tucked into his bed, his rattail curled up on the pillow beside him.

“WAKE UP FRUITCAKE! GET OUT OF MY ROOM!” Willy shouted again as he started hitting Bill with the trash bag over and over until the man’s eyes snapped open and he let out a growl, yanking a knife out from under the pillow and cutting his finger on it on his way to slashing it around blindly in Willy’s direction. “Hey, cut that out! You’re getting blood all over my sheets!”

“Wazzaaaaaap….” Bill groaned in a half snore before falling over again, dead asleep. Apparently, attacking someone with a knife just an automatic response for the great Bill Close. Willy frowned, grabbed the knife, and threw it carelessly out the open window before grabbing Bill Close and throwing him out after it, followed by all the trash bags clogging up his floor space.

From the attic, Ron let out a heavy sigh and wondered if he hid well enough he wouldn’t have to carry all the bags back upstairs again. After a long few minutes, he sucked it up and snuck down from the attic with the resolve to at least tell Bill about the second bedroom. If he was going to be Ron’s stepdad, he should probably at least sleep inside the house.

Ron really hoped that his dad didn’t expect Ron to share the attic with his new stepdad, though. He smelled funny.

*

Willy had spent the rest of Sunday looking for his son to beat the shit out of (didn’t find him), and watching out for Bill’s tragic and yet inevitable return (he had vanished from the yard but didn’t seem to come back), and in the end did not relax nearly as much as a Sunday warranted. What was worse was that he remembered halfway through the day that he hadn’t actually gotten around to golfing and so he was bound to hear about THAT at work on Monday.

He hoped his boss didn’t think he was sick or something. Getting sick was a shitty, girly thing to do and his reputation at work would be sullied forever if anyone thought he had stayed home because of something as puny as a germ. Maybe he could say his son did something stupid like supporting subsidized healthcare, and he had to stay home to punish him. Yeah, that could work.

Heading down the stairs and into his kitchen for his morning Weetabix before work, his suit and tie arranged perfectly for maximum intimidation, he paused in the doorway to find Bill was back at last and was sitting at the table eating what looked like Fruit Loops. Bill had Fruit Loops. In Willy’s house, there existed Fruit Loops, being eaten.

Willy whimpered and covered his face with his hands, trying to figure out what he was willing to put up with that day. He had, to his own daily horror, married Bill Close. In order for him to get any positives out of that situation, Bill Close was clearly going to be living in his house now, if only for the tax deduction.

So Willy had to put up with Bill Close being in his house, but he sure as hell didn’t have to put up with goddamn rainbow coloured cereal.

“Bill, throw that shit out,” Willy snapped, grabbing the toucan-adorned box and ripping it apart in his hands like a phone book, letting the cereal spill all over the floor.

Bill leaned back in his seat, viewing Willy like a child at the zoo who was suspicious that the lion might actually be a man in a suit and the roaring might actually be what a broken man sounded like after you cut out his tongue to use him in said zoo as part of your teenage money making scheme. Willy was very familiar with that expression.

“You know, I’d be mad about that, but I’ve decided you telling me what to do is pretty fucking hot.”

Willy’s pulse spiked and he lobbed the ripped pieces of cereal box at Bill out of instinct, only for the aerodynamic properties of light cardboard to ruin the effect by fluttering harmlessly to the ground before even reaching the table. Growling under his breath, Willy stomped to the table and sat down, glaring at his husband with as much menace as he could in the wake of a failed assault.

“Fine, if I have to have a fucking stupid ugly man as a wife, we’re gonna have to set some ground rules.”

“Yeah, sure dude, whatever you say,” Bill said, face open as he leaned forward on his elbows.

“First of all, no gay food in the house. Nothing colourful, nothing dick shaped.”

“Define dick shaped?” Bill asked, as though this request was completely normal and acceptable.

“If it’s longer than it is wide and about the same circumference all the way down, it’s a dick.”

“So sub sandwiches?”

“Dicks.”

“Asparagus?”

“Skinny dicks.”

“Watermelons?”

“Fat dicks.”

Bill drummed his fingers on the counter. “Sausage is right out then, I guess?” Willy glared harder. “Okay, just making sure. Wow. So, no gay food. What else?”

“No singing. Singing is gay.”

“Too bad, I got to practice.”

“I thought your band kicked you out.”

“Noooo, I’m just a solo act now. Still gotta practice.”

Willy growled. “Only when I’m at work, then.”

“Maybe.”

“There’s no maybe! My house, my rules!”

“Marriage is a partnership honey bun, and I think if you check the marriage laws, you’ll find it’s _our_ house. Now for _my_ rules!”

Willy’s face turned a rather fascinating shade of purple as he sputtered and shook in his seat. “Wha- but- you can’t just- YOU don’t make rules!”

“Rule number one, I get choked at least three times a week.” Willy’s eyes bugged out as Bill went on. “Rule two, I get to sleep _inside_ the house. No more waking up on the lawn with my stuff everywhere.”

“I-”

“Rule three, if someone comes to the door looking for me, I’m not here UNLESS they are holding a giant novelty check, or maybe a monkey in a diaper. Oh man, could you imagine if I had a pet monkey that wore a diaper? I could teach it to smoke blunts! That’d be rad.”

Willy’s breath wheezed out through his nose and he glanced up at the kitchen clock. Shit, he was going to be late! “Shut up, I’ve got to go to work. Just… just stay out of the basement and don’t touch ANYTHING. I’ll be back late.”

“Aw, but Willy, we haven’t even had our honeymoon yet!” Bill whined, “Come on, just a quickie before you go?”

Willy didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t sure how to handle this situation at all, really. He was out of his depth, he had to go to work, and he didn’t have time to deal with his unwanted and yet immovable roommate/legal spouse. So Willy got out of his chair.

“I can’t skip work.”

“Sure you can! Call in sick!”

Willy scoffed. “I can’t call in sick! That’s what women do!”

Bill grumbled something derogatory before pressing on, “Say your car wouldn’t start.”

“I’m rich, I’d get a taxi.”

“Snowed in? California’s government isn’t ready for a blizzard you know, if it ever snowed here it’d shut down the whole state probably.”

Willy looked at Bill with an unreadable but presumably unimpressed expression. “Bill, it not fucking snowing.”

“But it could be!”

“They’d know it’s not snowing, they could look outside you idiot.” 

Bill stood up, slid across the carpet to Willy, and walked his fingers up the bigger man’s arm. “Maybe it was a freak storm. Only got this street! Christmas magic!”

“No.”

“Oh come on Willy, just stay for a bit! I’ll make it worth your while. You can’t tell me you don’t want to beat the shit out of me even a little. It’ll relax you, trust me!”

Willy tugged his arm free of Bill’s light grasp and turned on his heel. “I really can’t stay.”

Bill grabbed Willy’s arm again, this time hugging it to his chest and pressing his cheek to the back of his massive hand, his face only taking up half of its size. Then he started to sing. _“But Willy, it’s cold outside…”_

“Stop it, that’s gay!” Willy snapped, trying and failing to yank himself free again, only serving to drag Bill with him out of the kitchen and into the drawing room.

_“But Willy, it’s cold outside.”_

“This morning has been-”

“ _Been waiting to ride that sin.”_

“- the worst I’ve had.”

_“Show me how you put the ‘bad’ in ‘Bad Dad’.”_

Willy spun in a circle, knocking Bill’s body into an easel and spreading the charcoal, which he had been using to make a life-like drawing of novelty fishing lures, all over the floor.

“It’s California you greasy ninny!”

_“You know I’m a Cheryl Tunt kinnie.”_

“It’s eighty degrees out that door!”

Bill wiggled his butt and threw a lit match onto the easel, setting it ablaze instantly. “ _Listen to the fireplace roar!”_

“Jesus man, are you crazy?” Willy gasped as his sprinkler system went off and started drenching everything in the room, including him and his nice pressed suit.

“ _Do unspeakable things to or on me…”_ Bill whispered and Willy sighed, walking dejectedly back toward the kitchen with Bill trotting at his heels.

“Well maybe just a half a drink more.”

_“I’ll put some leather on while you pour!”_ Bill grinned, finally letting him go and vanishing from sight as Willy found a suspicious looking flask on the kitchen counter and once he determined it was Bill’s he decided to swipe it, slurping from it sadly as he bemoaned the fact he would have to change his clothes now before getting in his orange Jaguar and driving to work. (Of course he had more than one sports car, he wasn’t an ANIMAL.)

“My employees might think-”

“ _Willy it’s bad out there.”_

Willy instantly started to choke, gasping and sputtering as his heart started beating wildly in his chest at the sight of Bill Close standing in the doorway wearing nothing but a tight leather banana hammock, a studded collar, and gold nipple tassels which he proceeded to gyrate enough to make spin in a hypnotic circle.

In fact, Willy’s heart was beating so fast it was fucking suspicious. “Hey, what’s in this drink?”

Bill laughed. “ _Just some cocaine, I swear.”_

“I wish I knew how-”

Bill moved in closer, staring into his eyes. Everything was so fucking bright. _“Your pupils are blown out, now.”_

“To BREAK YOUR NECK!” Willy’s hands darted out toward Bill.

_“I charge for that, but hey, what the heck!”_ Bill sang as he grabbed Willy’s hands to draw them closer, which of course made Willy feel all blushy and shy so he immediately snatched his hands back, mumbling miserably to himself as Bill pouted and followed him in circles around the kitchen table.

“I’m gonna say no, no, no, bitch!” Willy insisted, feeling scared by his possible oncoming heart attack and Bill’s advances but covering it up with mean words like a champion.

“ _I know that you can scratch my itch…”_

“I’m getting out of here with my pride!”

_“Come on over and deflower your bride…”_

Willy screamed and turned around, catching Bill’s hands as he lurched for him and whined when Bill laced their fingers together and swung their hands between them. “Bill, I’m NOT GAY!”

_“Just try to swing my way!”_ Willy whined in his throat as Bill pulled his hands around his sweaty neck and held them there, squeezing them around his jugular in an encouraging manner. _“Oh Willy, it’s cold outside!”_

Willy sucked in a breath, but as the cocaine and alcohol fully kicked in he noticed it kind of looked like Bill had a halo around his head and he found it hard to move away. In fact, he might’ve been unconsciously moving… closer… “F-fuck off you hoe.”

“ _Willy it’s cold outside…”_

He scoffed and finally his fingers tightened of their own accord. “There’s no fucking snow!”

“ _W-Willy it’s c-cold outside…”_ Bill sang in a wispy voice as much of his air was cut off.

“I’d strangle you blue!” Willy snapped.

_“Oh baby what’s stopping you?”_ Bill moaned, rubbing his neck as Willy let go, finally stepping back and rubbing his arm awkwardly.

“But you’d just make it weird.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “ _Come on honey, where’s your holiday cheer?”_

He had to stop this, he had to get changed and go to work! Willy tried to move for the door but Bill in his ridiculous outfit just jumped in the way again. Knowing it was useless, Willy tried to appeal to reason. “My colleagues will be suspicious!”

_“God your lips look delicious.”_

“I don’t want to be part of your act.”

_“Come on babe, just give me a smack!”_ Bill posed against the doorway with his ass thrust toward his quarry.

“Do you want to see me get vicious?” Willy grit his teeth, but turned around and started heading for the other door. He could take the long way.

_“God your butt looks delicious.”_

Willy groaned and spun around again, marching back to Bill and his irritatingly delighted face. “I just can’t deal with you anymore!”

_“I think the snow has blocked up the door!”_

Willy punched Bill in the gut and he man gasped and fell to the ground. Willy stepped over him and headed through the soaked dining room. Fuck it, he’d go to work wet. “I can’t just stay home.”

_“But Willy, you’d freeze out there!”_ Bill simpered behind him.

“Bill, there’s _no fucking snow!_ ”

“ _It’s up to your knees out there!”_ Bill pouted, crawling to catch up and then wrapping his arms and legs around one of Willy’s ankles.

“Why are you this way?!” Willy shook his foot to no avail, Bill wouldn’t let go.

_“Bro, what do I got to say?”_

“I won’t be swayed!”

“ _I’d make it worth your while if you stayed!”_ Bill walked his fingers up Willy’s leg toward his crotch, only to have his hand grabbed and yanked until Bill was left swaying on his feet, Willy pushing him backwards so he tripped over a chair and fell on his back. There was an audible wet crack heard as he hit the ground, visibly throwing his back out as he landed half in a puddle.

“I gotta go and make money!”

“ _I really think that it’s funny,”_ Bill coughed out.

Willy pointed at Bill in accusation. “And fucking you would be a crime!”

_“That you insist on wasting my time.”_

Suddenly Willy had an idea and walked over to the AC unit on the wall, turning it on full blast. “I can’t stay for long…”

“ _B-b-babe I don’t need long_ ,” Bill shivered as the temperature dropped and there he was, unable to move. “ _F-fuck, Willy, it's cold…”_ He sneezed. _“W-willy it’s cold… **inside**?!”_

“Damn right. Maybe if I’m lucky you’ll catch pneumonia. I should get you a life insurance policy.”

“C-c-c-c-cool beans,” Bill shot him a thumbs up and Willy rolled his eyes as he marched out of the room and then out of the house, only to nearly trip over some little Asian kid on the sidewalk. He was holding a bunch of bags in his arms and his hair was too fucking long for his own good.

“Get a haircut, you look like a girl!” Willy snapped, throwing hands at the boy’s face and knocking the child onto the pavement. He headed into his Jaguar and peeled away without even looking in his rear view mirror while the kid rolled around on the ground swearing behind him.

When Glenn Close managed to get his bearings enough to sit up he pinched his nose to stem the bleeding and wondered what the absolute fuck that was about. Was this the right address? Glenn started up the driveway hoping to god his dad was in there and could explain who the fucking psychopath was.

Actually knowing his dad’s type…

Oh god, that better not be his dad’s new sugar daddy.

“Hi, I’m Ron.”

“JESUS!” Glenn nearly jumped out of his skin as he approached the front door only for a voice to come out of the bushes. He turned his head fast enough to put a crick in his neck and found a skinny little white kid staring at him.

“You look like my new stepdad.” The kid’s eyes blinked slowly, and one at a time. Weird… wait, did he say stepdad?

“Uh, I don’t know what my dad told you, but like, if he’d screwing your dad it’s just for money so like, don’t uh… don’t get… attached?” Was it possible to get attached to Bill Close? Glenn didn’t think so. He was Bill’s son and his attitude was more ‘take him or leave him’ at this point.

“Oh no, they’re married,” the kid sounded very sure. “I saw the marriage certificate and everything. My dad isn’t very happy about it.”

Glenn paled as a rock settled in his stomach. What the fuck? What was his dad playing at?! And so that guy that just punched him… oh HELL no! “What’s your name, kid?”

“Hi, I’m Ron.”

“Okay Hiamron- weird name by the way- uh, do you know where my dad is?”

“Yeah, I think his back is broken. You can follow me.”

“Fucking typical,” Glenn clung to his bags as he followed Ron into the ugly ass house and hoped to god his mom came back to the country sooner than expected.


End file.
